


The Golds and Blues

by Saffroncremebrulee



Series: If Ever Two Were One [3]
Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M, Language, Minor Character Death, Pre-Season 1, Team STRQ (mentioned), The White Fang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-04 16:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13368519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffroncremebrulee/pseuds/Saffroncremebrulee
Summary: Qrow, meet Winter.Winter, meet Qrow.Alternatively, the love story that wasn’t supposed to be.





	1. Coachella- Woodstock on My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a while since I’ve attempted a writing challenge so....here goes. 
> 
> This one is going to about an hour for each chapter, light editing, and then moving on to the next chapter, hopefully every couple of days. 
> 
> Apologies in advance for any egregious mistakes. I’m trying to push myself to be a better (er...somewhat decent?) writer by, you know, actually writing instead of staring at drafts with existential angst. 
> 
> With that said, this one is pretty odd. There isn’t a master plan, just a general sense of a few important lines of dialogue.

You meet Winter at, of all places, a funeral.

(Ironic, right?)

Then again, _so_ much of your life would be easier if the universe had a better sense of humor. Or sympathy. Or whatever, really, anything close to the semblance of humanity Oz liked to prattle on about. Seemingly endlessly. Most of the spiel about endings being new beginnings struck you as insincere and somewhat obsequiously false, especially now.

The funeral is a state affair. People in Atlas tend to _like_ those sorts of things. The pomp and circumstance seemed more important than the person they were for. Your unadorned opinion is that funerals were for the living, not the dead, and no place was this more true than at the last rites of one Nicholas Schnee.

Good Ol’ Saint Nick.

Now _there_ was a **fine** huntsman. Grew up poor in a podunk village in the middle of nowhere, went to school in the middle of a Dust forsaken wilderness, went expeditioning in the middle of fuck knows where, and built an empire from absolutely jack shit nothing. A true huntsman if there ever was one, a true friend to the downtrodden and the overlooked such as the Faunus, and a true donor to the education of future Huntsman and Huntresses.

Yeah, Oz is right about Nick. As Oz is right about pretty much everything else.

Today is the end of an era. Gone. Obliterated. Erased from humanity with little to show but miles of matching orchestras and wooden smiles. The fakest one of all was painted on Jacques Schnee, who might be the first person to ever coronate himself at such a grim occasion. No one believed for a minute that Jacques would ever live up to Nick or even bother trying to uphold Nick’s legacy. It would be a very warm day in Atlas indeed if Jacques Schnee melted even a little of his plastic facade.

Nonetheless, you murmur your condolences to that severely waxed, rat-like mustache as you trail behind Oz. Nick would be well-missed; besides, you’re a representative of Signal Academy now, and the change of power was always a keen time for inter-kingdom cooperation. By the looks of all the brown-nosing, the vultures had already landed and they were fixed squarely on the remaining members of the Schnee dynasty.

The children.

Or, more precisely, the two children and the surrogate parental figure sibling, also known as the only people displaying any type of actual grief at this sham of an event. You recognize the symptoms all too well. The slumped shoulders, pink-rimmed nostrils, suspiciously shiny eyes, and the little hands latched securely on the one anchor-like figure in the middle. Yang and Ruby had been much the same after Summer...well...now really wasn’t the time to think about that.

You focus instead on the unnaturally rigid figure sandwiched in the middle. She was tall, for one, willowy and thin with a shock of ice-blonde hair that screamed a last name synonymous with all the possessions money could buy. You would have recognized that face even without the garish snowflake-emblazoned dress; this was Winter Schnee, heiress to Jacques’ much-hyped about company, pride of Atlesian high society, and, somewhat incongruously, Jimmy Ironwood’s favorite new graduate. Funny how one girl’s face could rest in so many different positions of cultured disinterest. You’ve seen enough magazines and gossip rags to know that Winter presented no personality whatsoever besides a carefully curated public image.

True to form, she hardly spoke, rarely conversed, and barely bothered to acknowledge the people milling about like rats at a feast.

... _Well_ , you wouldn’t want to be here, either, especially not if your mother just broken down quite publicly and was not-so-discreetly removed from the open bar. No doubt the front pages would be screaming about how Winter Schnee, Heiress, showed more poise than the majority of dignitaries and board members in handling the press than seasoned veterans. The whole display was unnecessarily _public_ , especially with the two little ones on either side trying very hard not to cry, as kids who were undoubtably ordered to shuffle every emotion off to an isolated island do. The hanger-ons around them could smell blood, smell the fear, and you see more than one cameraman not-so-discreetly aiming their lenses at the children. Damn these people if they think they they could get away with taking a child’s pain and blasting it across the front pages. The older mini-Schnee looked a little younger than Yang- Ruby’s age, maybe- and you weren’t going to let a shivering little kid like that suffer more trauma today.

Pausing to pound another shot, you make your way to them, stopping once to extricate Oz from a boring as hell conversation with Jimmy about the necessity of maintaining good relations with Jacques. Fuck _that_ , you think to yourself, and you practically drag Oz the last few steps, planting your bodies firmly in front of the lenses.

Thankfully, Oz speaks first. “Miss Schnee. Please accept our deepest sympathies for your loss.”

“Winter, please.” Her voice is surprisingly soft and melodious. She nudges mini-Schnee and toddler-Schnee gently; the kids blink courteously, yet say nothing. “Weiss and Whitley thank you for your condolences as well, Mr....”

“Ozpin, please. This is my colleague, Mr. Qrow Branwen.”

You incline your head as Winter nods in acknowledgement. You give Weiss and Whitley your most sympathetic smile. It’s not returned as both kids retreat behind Winter’s skirt. New tactic, then. “Your grandfather was a wonderful man. He will be missed.”

Winter nods again with practiced perfunction. You get the feeling she has heard this many times already and the edges were beginning to crack just a bit. Any moment now, this fragile house of cards would come tumbling down for her, just like they did for Tai, and you didn’t want it to happen here, in this room, where so many people were waiting with intentions both good and bad.

Oz, however, is already gently shepherding the three Schnees through the crowd, over the mansion grounds, towards the large atrium outside where a fine layer of snow dusted the ground. “If you will forgive me, Winter, I was hoping to speak to Weiss and Whitley briefly about some endowments your grandfather entrusted to me. Qrow, if you would kindly follow us to the gardens, please....”

You park yourself between them and Jacques’ all-too-interested stare and quickly follow. Something else was going on here, wasn’t it? Plainly Oz had words to speak, words that could not be chanced to overeager ears. By the looks of it, Winter had thoughts to share, too, and you were only too eager to find out why. 

It was only later that you realized curiosity may have killed the bird, too. 

 


	2. Take Me Home, Country Roads

The Schnee Manor is extraordinarily well-defended against intruders. Not because there was a significant amount of security. Far from that. Rather, the number of guards and soldiers around the property seemed microcosmic compared to the immense wealth contained therein. The windows and doors weren’t very well-secured either. A couple of well-aimed punches or kicks would do for most; a prybar for the rest. What prevented people from breaking into the home was not even the reputation of the occupants; everyone knew that Nick Schnee welcomed pretty much everyone into his home, rich or poor, human or Faunus, Huntsman or not.

You had a feeling this open door policy would be changing very soon courtesy of one very exclusive Jacques Schnee.

For the moment, though, the only measures protecting the opulent manor were the acoustics better suited for a concert hall than a place of residence. The sheer volume of the reverberations made it difficult to move anywhere around the grounds, let alone sneak from one side of the gathering to the next. You had been wondering how how Winter’s stilettos were going to make it across the ballroom without Jacques tracking the sound when an oddly diffident looking butler suddenly materialized next to Oz.

Shrugging, you slink a little and follow, hoping to look less suspicious by blending in, at least height-wise, to the crowd of murmuring individuals. This butler obviously knew the layout of the house quite well, including which spots to avoid and which passageways to take. Within a few minutes you were free of the suffocating scent of “social appropriateness” and ensconced in the garden that really would be more properly termed museum.

Or mausoleum, judging by the white, silver, and gray palette as well as the ashen faces of everyone around you.

Oz coughs and gestures. Discreetly, you begin fishing around in your pockets for various knick-knacks to entertain the remaining children. Clearly Oz wanted facetime with Winter. Whatever that entailed it was probably not appropriate for Mini-Schnee and toddler-Schnee. Luckily for them, Ruby and Yang had a proclivity for sweets. Where Tai was much too strict to allow chocolate into the house, you being the **cool** Uncle brought your own supply, along with various balloons and magical trick coins. You hadn’t even started on your first fake flower when Oz and Winter moved to what must be the only corner in the house built with normal acoustic properties.

 _Of course_ Oz had to rope you into serving as some sort of traveling minstrel showman without telling you why. You try to catch pieces of their conversation even though they were somewhat hidden behind a large tree. More than snow was melting on Winter’s face, and you can see Oz produce a small silk handkerchief from the corner of your eye. Their voices were soft, yet the occasional word drifted back to you nearly sent more than one balloon popping.

“ _Assassination.”_

_“Coup.”_

_“White Fang.”_

_“Mission.”_

Dangerous words, all of them. Any one of the above would send most reasonable people edging towards the nearest exit. Weiss and Whitely don’t seem old enough to understand yet. Winter does, though, and she seemed to be steeling herself against something much larger than grief. You hadn’t been expecting genuine emotion. The way Winter strode purposefully back from her conversation made you feel as if you were seeing her for the first time. There was a glint in her eye now and a force to her steps.

“Come, Weiss and Whitely. We must return to Father. Thank you, Professor Ozpin”

You make to escort them back, but the frosty glance from the butler cut your intentions in half. You weren’t welcome in whatever that was going on between him, Oz, and the Schnee children. Instead, you watch silently as they disappear again into the labyrinth of the house, candy wrappers and plastic balloons falling into the soft white snow.

_Shit._

More than Nick Schnee just died.

And Oz....

Oz seemed blasé about the entire prospect.


	3. Blowin’ In the Wind

You nurse the whiskey in your hand as you wait for Oz. The day had gone about as well as expected, meaning that it sucked about as much as you’d expect an event hosted by a bunch of uptight assholes with too much money and too little sense would suck. The drink was a welcome diversion from the backstabbing and scheming of the day. Having grown up in a bandit tribe, you preferred the obvious fist to the face as opposed to the so-called civilized knife in the back. Oz had looked shockingly horrified when you broached the subject of, you know, real duels. Apparently that wasn’t how civilized people handled disagreements.

_Bullshit._

At least there was alcohol.

What had the cute bartender called it?

Right...

**Sweet Oblivion.**

A fitting name. The whiskey was strong; the way it should be. Tasted like sweet, heady forgetfulness with a slight hint of bitter aromatics. Just right for your state of mind. You wanted to leave the Schnees far, far behind for a few hours. They reminded you too much of your first missions in the field. You had teammates then, now it was just you, and Oz, trying to keep it all together when the rest of the universe fell apart faster than gift wrap in a kid’s hands.

Oz had played the political undercurrents longer than any man alive, but even he seemed weary as he folded himself into the chair across from you after the third or fourth glass of the evening. He doesn’t speak and, after a moment of hesitation, you gesture for the bartender to bring you another. The hazel-eyed Hunter studied the liquid for a moment as if confused, then proceeded to down it with the suaveness you reserved for every dollar store vintage. You gape unattractively at the sight. The _fuck_ happened to make Oz act like...well... _you_?

The Beacon Headmaster leaned back in his chair and sighed. The expression on his face was worrisome, to say the least, not to mention the tiny creases that seemed to crop up whenever Grimm broached the boundaries or Jimmy had another bright idea. Noticing your look, Oz smiles just enough to pass for friendly. “You want answers, Qrow.”

You snort. _Real astute, genius_. “Yeah...Oz. Answers would be _real_ nice. Starting with why we had to make nice at this sham of an event, for one.” Generally, your companion wasn’t generally very talkative. You weren’t really expecting actual answers; at this point even a poke in the right direction would do. God knows you’ve made do with less after all these years.

Shockingly, Oz relayed the tale with alarming honesty.

Saint Nick hadn’t died of “natural causes,” as was currently being broadcasted by every single douchebag with a camera who were apparently invited to feast like vultures for the betterment of the public.

Nick was murdered.

By a faction of the White Fang, some dumbass splinter group believing the fastest way to international prominence was offing the much-beloved figurehead of the Schnee Dust Company. Not out of any love of Jacques, mind you, but rather a morbid fascination with his less tolerant policies. With Scalp-A-Faunus, Save-A-Lien Jacques in charge, conditions for the Faunus are bound for worse and worse lows. Piss off enough of the Faunus and, well, suddenly the road from splinter group to head branch of the White Fang wasn’t that big of a hike now, was it?

All in all, totally a good plan, if you were into the whole fuck over the world thing like Salem clearly is. Just diabolical enough to work, too. The SDC under Nick was a well-respected mid-sized company. The SDC under Jacques will be a well-oiled industrial exploitation machine. No wonder Jacques spent most of today cozing up to the Atlesian council and various other entitled suits. SDC was going global, which required cheap labor. And lot of it at bargain prices, bad press from exploiting workers and species discrimination be damned.

Enter Winter.

Her job is to “manage public expectations.”

AKA serve as the publicly likable, charitable face of a much more nefarious operation. Also a brilliant, if ruthless plan, the sort of thing someone like Jacques would proudly implement like some fucking miracle of mining. Who the hell trots out their own daughter like a parade horse at a race while fleecing workers in the back?

Just when you think brutal ambition couldn’t be worse for innocent children, a terrible thought occurred to you. This White Fang splinter group was ambitious, too, and sooner or later the next step to waging all out war against the Schnees and, by proxy, mankind, would be to implement Nick 2.0 with....Winter?

The way Oz nods wearily makes it clear that this thought had already occurred to him. Clever man, always planning multiple steps ahead. The entire scenario has flammable doused all over it, especially if Winter were to be kidnapped...or worse. Jacques may be a dick, but he was still a dick who would still move heaven and earth for his children. Not to mention Jimmy and his vastly overpowered army had a soft spot for Winter, too. One spark and the whole fucking world blows, quite literally, given how much Dust Jacques is lording over as of today.

“What can we do, Oz?”

“We fight, Qrow. Humans must have peace with the White Fang, and it is essential that Winter be the one to take on this mission.”

“Mission.” The flatness of your voice cuts through all the alcoholic haze in your brain. “Don’t you mean, paint a target on her back?”

Oz just sighs as he points out the obvious. “The snowflake on her back is already a target, Qrow. She did not choose this war, but it is here for her, for Weiss, and for Whitley, just like it has been here for you, for Raven, for Tai, and for Sum-“

The glass in your hand suddenly shatters against the wall. “Don’t you dare, Oz, don’t you _dare_ talk about her to me. Not after all she’s lost, not after what Tai, Ruby, and Yang lost, not after all we’ve lost.”

Your boss doesn’t even blink. “Not after all you’ve lost, Qrow?” Oz puts a hand on your shoulder comfortingly. You shake him off angrily, trying not to start a fight in a bar that would draw the wrong sort of attention. Any normal person would have gotten the hint and left you alone by now, but, _no_ , **not** Oz. He just keeps going, making sure to twist the knife a little bit deeper before leaving you with an oblivion that doesn’t taste so sweet anymore.

“Winter understands, Qrow. That is why she has already accepted the mission. In memory of someone she loved very much.”

Just like you’re going to, apparently.

No. _No no no no_. _**No**_.

Fuck no. Fucking hell no. Fuck _to_ the hell **no**. Fuck that shit from here to hell and back again over and over again and it’s still no to the _fucking hell_ **no**.

You were _out_. You promised yourself you were _out_ after what happened to your team. You were _out_ of this of game of emotions, of never ever winning, of always losing the the people closest to you and never having anything to hold at the end of the day except bitterness and regret. You’re _out_. You’re not getting into this again. Give you torture. Give you pain. Give you Salem. Anything but the hope of actually having something work out for once, just please God not this un-winnable war again because you know how this is going to end before it even starts and you just fucking _**can’t**_ anymore.

Then comes Oz’s voice, distant yet ringing in your head like a waking drum.

“The past is gone, Qrow. Are you going to let Salem take Winter’s future, too?”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own RWBY. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment, not profit. 
> 
> I also do not own any of the songs referenced in the chapter titles. They are the intellectual property of their respective creators.


End file.
